Touch Not A Cat
by BlackRose
Summary: An ongoing game of cat and mouse in the simplest things. shounen-ai, Ashley x Sydney


**Touch Not a Cat  
by BlackRose, 2001**  
  


> "Would you mind?"   
  
Soft and quiet and utterly toneless. Ashley, without a word, set aside the boot he had been re-lacing and held out his hand. A plain comb, wood worn smooth, was dropped onto his palm and Sydney settled onto the edge of the bed beside him, back turned, rivulets of water trailing from his wet hair to streak down between his shoulder blades.   
  
It had startled Ashley the first time - shocked him, on some level. That the other man, who hated to show weakness of any sort, should need help with such a simple thing. Sydney, lips pressed thin, had only held up one hand, the first and second joint of each gleaming finger bent to curve the long sharp blades inward, and explained in an expressionless voice that some finer manipulations of small objects were difficult and time consuming.   
  
It had never occured to Ashley, before then, that there were simple things Sydney couldn't do. That the other man was, in fact and in more ways than one, crippled.   
  
It had felt strange, that first time, to lift the comb and gingerly set the carved wooden teeth to pale hair made the color of dark wheat by water. He had winced every time the comb had jerked against a knotted tangle. Sydney, after sitting patiently for several minutes, had quietly remarked with a touch of wryness that he was not breakable - Ashley could be a little firmer. The older man, embarassed, had made quick work of the rest of it and if the almost harsh tugs against his scalp had been painful Sydney had not said a word. Only thanked him when it was done, scrupulously polite, the still damp strands of hair falling foward to cling wetly to his cheeks.   
  
Repetition could make anything familiar after a time.   
  
There was a trick to it; to placing the teeth of the comb into the pale hair and pulling both outwards and down. If it snagged he would pause, the fingers of his other hand holding the hair just above the comb as he worked the tangle free, sparing Sydney from the jerking tugs. Water wrung free between the comb's teeth in rivulets, flowing across his hands and spattering down Sydney's back. Wet, the strands of his hair trailed below his shoulders.   
  
Up. Out. Down. Repeat, until the comb slid in long, smooth strokes from crown to tips and the damp mass of it shone in the lamp light. It was a ritual of sorts and they went through the motions of it in silence, the words between them pared down to the barest minimum - Sydney's request and, at the end of it, a quiet word of thanks. It was all the acknowledgement of his weaknesses that the man would allow and Ashley, in his own silence, tried to respect that.   
  
Up. Out. Down, droplets of water shining on the tips of the comb's teeth as strands of hair slid through them. Sydney's eyes, when Ashley glimpsed his profile, were closed, his expression perfectly still and blank as he sat beneath the ministration. But there was a tension there, in the corners of his mouth and eyes and along the line of his jaw - something hard and pained, that had nothing at all to do with the actual pull of the comb through his hair.   
  
Ashley slid his fingers through the damp mass, cool to the touch, lifting it away from the slender neck where it would dry faster. Water slid across his fingertips to run down the back of his hands. Sydney's back was wet with it, shining against white scar tissue in gleaming rivulets that trailed down to the hollows of his spine like a mockery of sigils traced across skin. Ashley wrung the last drops from the trailing tips of Sydney's hair, brushing the water away from the slender shoulders.   
  
There was a ridge there, distinct and sharp between the smoothness of skin and the too smooth surface of scars. It traced the whole of Sydney's back, carved with surgical precision, healed clean and sharp. But nothing would ever erase it and the brush of his fingertips across that fine ridge made Sydney flinch, spine tensing for one flash of a second like the smallest of cracks in a piece of tempered armor.   
  
Deliberately, Ashley ran the pad of his thumb lightly across that scarred ridge, wiping away the droplets of water that had collected there. Sydney made no motion, tense and stiff beneath the touch. "Go sit by the fire," Ashley suggested quietly. "It'll dry faster."   
  
Sydney, after a breath, stood. "Thank you," he said, but the words were wooden and his eyes turned away. Ashley, the comb still in his hands, watched the other man turn and go to the hearth, folding himself easily down to the floor. His head was turned down, the damp strands falling forward in hide his face, shining golden in the firelight.   
  
Ashley let the silence stretch for another minute before he rose, crossing the room to drop down beside the other man. When he reached out to lightly touch the damp head Sydney moved, only barely, the slightest drawing back. The older man stilled the gesture, fingertips just brushing the wet strands. "Would you mind?"   
  
Sydney's own words, that had become the start of the ritual. The other man said nothing but after a long moment he shifted, turning, the pale back presented to Ashley once more. The older man could hear the soft rasp of metal on metal as steel hands quietly closed, clasped securely across Sydney's knees.   
  
Saying nothing further, he settled on the floor behind Sydney, his fingertips stroking gently through the damp masses of hair, the flames of the fire warm against his side. From crown of head to the first tip of spine in gentle strokes, like stroking a cat or a wild creature, rhythmic and soothing as the hair beneath his fingers slowly dried.   
  
Twice as they sat in silence he heard the rasp of metal, the involuntary flinch of fingertips the only motion Sydney would allow himself. When pale strands ran like crisp silk through his fingers, soft and smooth and dry, Ashley let his hands fall away. There was a sound like a sigh, barely breathed and almost lost beneath the crackle of the flames.   
  
"Thank you," Sydney repeated quietly, and this time Ashley could believe he meant the words.   
  
Ashley hesitated and then slowly bent his head. The scarred ridge was rough beneath his lips, the skin to either side of it tasting clean, of soap and water and the warmth of the fire. He touched it only briefly, his breath ghosting across pale flesh.   
  
Sydney stilled beneath his hands but did not move away. When Ashley looked up it was to meet eyes that told him nothing, the armor securely in place once more, all cracks hidden too deep to see. "You're welcome," he said softly. The other man said nothing and Ashley let him go, the comb clicking gently against the floor as he set it beside Sydney's knee.   
  
Like stroking a cat. He hadn't, Ashley reflected as he settled back on his own bed, been scratched. It was certainly a start.   
  
-end-   
  
_* "Touch not a cat without a glove"   
translation of the motto of a scottish clan... and I'll have to ask my lovely wife what clan it is, since it's her heritage, not mine. ^_^_


End file.
